


Water from the Poisoned Well

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Light, Smoke and Mirrors [5]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: There’s plenty of time yet. He can be subtle about it; a whisper of dark silk against her thoughts. Dark silk and temptation, what a fitting way to put it. Smart girl.He could break her easily… but it is always more amusing to give them tools and then watch them slowly break themselves. More satisfying.Besides, he’s always had a certain fondness for roses. They die so quickly when plucked.





	Water from the Poisoned Well

“What do you see in the glass, Marten?”

“And what do you see when you look through this window, Gabrielle?”

Words games. Word games have always been his favorite. Watching how they try to understand and inevitably fail. Usually. It’s always more amusing when they succeed, only to stumble upon more riddles.

She moves closer to him, but not close enough to touch, gathers the sheet more tightly to herself so that it would not brush against his legs. Always wary when he is doing magic – the real magic, not illusions and tricks, she’s not afraid of those.

“The world,” she replies, brow furrowed comically, but despite that, she still manages to look pretty. It was a pleasure, picking her.

“Here, that’s your answer,” he praises. She isn’t stupid. Just very lost at this point, torn between the need to be loved and the guilt she feels for cheating on her husband. Still has some spirit in her, but it’s slowly burning out, with all that remorse and with all that desperate yearning she feels when they don’t see each other for what she considers too long.

“Is this magic? Or just your eyes?”

“Can’t it be both?” Not his eyes, per say; he was granted the sight. But not just magic either. Magic can let one watch, but not _see_ , no; that’s his own skill. And glass can help see further, of course.

What a useful thing, glass. So pliant when heated, so resistant when cooled, so difficult to crack and so easy to shatter.

She wouldn’t be very difficult either, but he lets life shatter her. Gives her words she longed to hear from her husband, fills her hopelessness with possibilities. There are worse things than solitude… but she is yet to discover that.

He turns and pulls her to him and presses her against the window, trapping her between his body and the glass. Her eyes widen and she tries to push him away.

“Marten, don’t! Someone could see…”

He laughs and steps away, pulling her with him so that she stumbles into his arms. That brief look of fear in her eyes … Fear of being alone again. She’s more afraid of that than of the punishment awaiting her if someone learned about their affair.

“I hate your jests,” she says. Tries to wriggle free, but when she sees it’s futile, she simply raises her chin up and turns her head away. It’s a gesture that says ‘cry my pardon’. She still strives to retain some of that dignity she lost when she first imagined herself in his embrace, poor thing. Still, it’s more interesting that way, when she keeps trying. Roses are much prettier with their little thorns.

He kisses her neck. Closes his teeth on a mark he left on her shoulder earlier – gently, this time. Dips his tongue into the hollow of her throat.

She sighs and all the resistance melts away. Heated glass than can be molded into any shape he wants. She’s always been a perfect fit against him. And he enjoys making those gradual changes in the world he can see inside her. Nothing sudden like a storm or a fire. Rain. Soft drops of falling water. Drops than can make their way through stone and bones and the very substance of the soul.

He could break her easily; there are cracks all over her mind now. Cracks he can water with poison, hears it trickle into her, can see those drops in the gleam of her eyes.

There’s plenty of time yet. He can be subtle about it; a whisper of dark silk against her thoughts. Dark silk and temptation, what a fitting way to put it. Smart girl.

He could break her easily… but it is always more amusing to give them tools and then watch them slowly break themselves. More satisfying.

Besides, he’s always had a certain fondness for roses. They die so quickly when plucked.

* * *

 

It would be so easy to spin nightmares for her – but he doesn’t even have to. She dreams those all on her own – of the darkness looming on the horizon, of the shadow reaching towards Gilead, of the fate awaiting her husband and her son. So he weaves other dreams – sweet dreams, calm dreams, of light and colors – of shattered glass. The rose garden she’s always liked so much, white and pink flowers in bloom. Fireflies and warm summer evenings. He doesn’t even put himself in those dreams, just leaves some empty space, enough of it for a person, and she fills it herself. Not with the image of her husband, but of him.

It brings her more anguish than the nightmares do. Because those dark, terrible dreams are honest fear, while those pretty colorful pictures are reminders of her sins, of things she regrets but would do all over again for how they made her feel when they lasted. For those brief moments when a rose smells the sweetest just before it decays.

That is how she is, when he finds her in Debaria. It would be a pity to make it go to waste.

He balances warnings and demands and promises. Promises are the most important. It’s more difficult to coax someone by giving than by taking away, but overall safer, more reliable. Take too little and they won’t heed, take too much and they will break or rebel, take everything and they will die or fight. Promise and give just the right amount, and then a bit more, and they will follow.

He promises safety for her son. One thing she cannot refuse, no matter the price. It will never be, of course, but she doesn’t need to know. Roland has to die, because as long as that boy is alive, there will always be a part of Gabrielle she will not give away. But she doesn’t need to know. She will not need to know later, either. It will be enough to make her believe it was just a mistake, her or maybe her husband’s, or maybe even her son’s. _Ka_ , Gabrielle, that’s what he will tell her, your son was a man and took _ka_ in his own hands and made his choices. And then she will make hers.

For now, there are other things she wants to know. Thinks she wants to, because she doesn’t, not really. She wouldn’t ask, if she thought better of it. But then he looks into her eyes and there is a part of her that needs to know, _wants_ to know. Wants to know how much she has condemned herself.

He gives her the answer she wants to hear. On some level, it’s probably still true. Maybe on more than one. She’s sweet when for a moment she believes it’s because of her. Sweeter still when she realizes it’s not.

“Do you even know what regret is, Marten?”

“Later, love. I know that the time for regrets will come later.” And then he shushes her with a kiss and they speak no more.

She’s the sweetest in her bitterness. It’s been some time since he’s tasted true love – the sweetest, the most bitter, the perfect poison that slowly devours but once consumed, makes it impossible to live without it. He could get drunk on it, if he wished, drawing it from her mouth.

It would be a pity, really, to let her make a mistake that would kill her.

* * *

 

There’s a smile on his lips when he watches her dance with her husband. There is only one way this night can end, for many reasons – with Gabrielle in her husband’s bed, for one last time. He could watch that, too, if he wished, but he’d rather die of something else than boredom.

His smile widens as he watches Gabrielle’s reflection in Steven Deschain’s eyes. Have you ever really tasted her sweetness, _dinh-sai_ , he thinks mockingly, have you ever made her sing? Such lovely, clear sounds, like music made on crystal or glass.

Have one last night of joy, _dinh-sai_. It will bring you some exquisite pain as well. But worry not, it will end soon, before you know it.

She would wilt by your side, Steven of Gilead, Steven of the Light, Steven the fool. She’s been fed so much poison by now that clean water would make her sick. It will, just as he planned. Roses need proper care, after all.

Steven Deschain will be granted the small mercy of not seeing Gilead fall… but he will still know, before he dies. He will see his little flower choose another over him, _again_. In some ways, it will be worse. A pity he will perish too quickly to truly appreciate it.

And Marten will see Gilead crumble and burn. But before that happens, he will pluck one rose from its gardens. Pluck it and keep it pressed between the pages of his book, and revive it with kisses, to watch it bloom and then wilt again. Over and over.

He could force her to do his will, with spells and threats. But it is much better when she is the one forcing herself, for the illusory hope of saving her son. And then, when all is done, when her husband is dead by her own hand and her son is dead despite her sacrifice, she will come to him willingly, because she will have nowhere else to go, and because she knows he has always listened when she needed a shoulder to cry on. And cry she will. He will drink up all her tears. And then tear another kind of cries from her throat. She will hate herself for making the wrong choices, but will be grateful to him for saving her from loneliness.

It’s all so simple, really, so simple. He could just take her… but one can truly take only what is given freely. Only then it’s complete. She’s been giving herself to him of her own free will, because she needed to, but also wanted to. That’s why he owns her in a way he could have never achieved otherwise.

* * *

 

She does not kill her husband. He took that possibility into consideration, but hoped she would, that she would shatter herself with that soft touch of the poisoned knife to her husband’s heart. She doesn’t. Only steals the crystal.

Marten watches, knowing how it will end. He warned her.

Your husband’s life was the price for yours, Gabrielle, he thinks, gazing at her anguished eyes. But you’d have never agreed to do that for yourself, would you? No, not for yourself. Only for your insolent brat. And even then you decided there is a price you cannot pay. You made your choice, Gabrielle. It was a wrong one. You would have called it right, if you knew.

And then she is standing face to face with Roland, and Marten, looking at her through the glass in her window, thinks that in this moment, she knows.

She doesn’t wilt and die like a flower would. No, she goes out in a flash of lightning and the crash of thunder, blood blooming on her dress like a rose. Light is pouring out from inside her through the bullet holes in her chest. He’s been drinking that light from her mouth for years, and still there is enough of it that she shines. She has never been more beautiful.

For a moment, he can’t help but admire her.

Be grateful, Gabrielle, he thinks. Fate was kinder to you than I would be. Even death is kinder to you.

Still, a pity, my love. Such a pity.


End file.
